


wanna be your backdoor man

by jugheadjones



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 15:13:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19022491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jugheadjones/pseuds/jugheadjones
Summary: AU where FP and Fred meet at the annual Elm Street 4th of July block party.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bisexualfpjones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualfpjones/gifts).



“Fred Andrews,” exclaims Mary, snapping her book shut on her lap and slapping one of her flip-flop clad feet down onto the grass. She sits up in one of the lawn chairs they’d set up by the side of the pool, readjusting her large floppy sunhat as she does so, and fixes her gaze on her ex-husband. “Are you listening to a word I’m saying?”

“What?” Fred’s head swivels guiltily to meet her eyes, tearing his gaze away from the impromptu volleyball game going on a few feet away on the lawn. The Elm Street summer block party was in full swing, and all the available grass was overrun with towels, umbrellas, smoking barbecues, and circles of chatting neighbours. They had staked out a patch of prime real estate next to the Malloy family’s pool, not far from where a group of men had set up a beach volleyball net from someone’s garage.

“I said,” repeats Mary, “He’s probably gay. Just go talk to him.”  

Fred blushes, his cheeks colouring deeper behind his tan. Even with his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, it was more than obvious that he’d been staring in the same place for the past hour.

“I don’t know,” he frets self-consciously, suddenly fascinated by a peeling sunburn on his knee. “He looks like he’s married.”

Mary gives the stranger another once-over. He has a dark rush of stubble that’s too purposeful to be called five-o-clock shadow, and an adorable shock of floppy, jet black hair that keeps falling into his eyes when he serves. He’s also tall. Fred’s type. Definitely.

“Facial hair says recently divorced,” she points out. “No one nagging him to shave.”

“Or his wife likes it,” Fred’s voice has gone faint and dreamy. “ _I_ like it.”

They watch as the newest inhabitant of Elm Street spikes the ball over the net, his grin brilliant white in the sun. He’s wearing black swim trunks and a sleeveless white tank top, creeping up every time he jumps to expose his pale beer belly.

“That body says he’s been eating nothing but microwave meals. Divorced, I’m telling you.”

Fred tears his eyes away from the scene at last, flashing her one of the irresistible, mischievous grins he does best. “We eat microwave meals. We’d starve otherwise.”

“Watch it,” Mary warns, and slaps him with her sunhat. “Also, for your information, everyone here loves my ambrosia salad.”

She’s already lost him. Fred’s slack-jawed again, staring at their handsome new neighbour as though he’d never seen a man before. Mary can see the flush creeping up the back of his neck that has nothing to do with the scorching sunlight overhead. He nibbles at the flesh of his lower lip, his tongue darting out between his teeth.

“If you’re not going to talk to him, at least quit staring at him and licking your lips. You look like you’re contemplating thanksgiving dinner.”

“I’m not!” Fred protests, clicking his teeth shut. He directs his gaze bashfully back to the ground. His voice comes out little-boy soft. “I’m not staring.”

“Mm-hm. My lawyer senses say you’re guilty. Does he have a ring?”

“I can’t tell.” Both of them hold their breath as the stranger grabs the volleyball from the sand and positions it for a serve. His left hand swings up, strikes the ball, and arcs slowly up in the air, the sun glowing on his bare knuckles. Fred leans forward, squinting, feeling Mary do the same at his side.

“No ring,” says Mary firmly. “There you go.”

Fred blushes, not willing to give in so quickly. “Maybe he keeps it around his neck.” There’s a gold chain disappearing into the collar of the stranger’s tank top.

Mary snorts. “Then go undress him and find out.” 

“Mare-” Fred protests, his cheeks glowing like a neon sign.  

“I swear, Fred, if you don’t go talk to him—”  

“But--”

Mary gives him a threatening jut of her chin that says _if you don’t, I will._

“Finally,” she sighs, as Fred rises from his lawn chair and awkwardly tries to smooth his hair into something presentable, slipping his sandals back on in the grass.

Every step toward the volleyball net makes him feel like a kid again, crossing the floor to talk to his crush at a school dance. Fred’s mouth is completely dry, and he has no idea what he’s going to say even if he works up the spit. He keeps walking toward the group of people who had been playing volleyball, now cheerfully swatting one another on the back and helping themselves to drinks from an overstuffed cooler, hoping something will reveal itself.

It doesn’t. “Hi,” Fred exclaims when he reaches his new crush’s side, his voice strained. The dark-haired man is in the middle of popping open a beer, condensation dripping down his fingers as he snaps the pull-tab. Fred’s heart is thumping like a jackhammer. “You’re new, right? You just moved in?”

The guy grins and flicks hair out of his eyes with his wet hand. “Yeah. Big white house down the street.”

Fred looks into his face and freezes. _Fuck._ His eyes. This man has the darkest, deepest, most chocolaty eyes Fred’s ever had the privilege of getting lost in. His knees start to buckle as he nods like a marionette. No. _Fuck._  He has to play it cool. He’s good at this. Flirting is what he does.

“It’s hot,” he blurts out, and makes some vague gesture toward the sun. Shit. Okay. Maybe good is the wrong word.

“What are you drinking?” the stranger asks, raising an eyebrow. His tongue darts out for a second to moisten his lower lip, and Fred’s eyes follow it greedily.

“I don’t have one,” he answers, checking his empty hand as though a drink may have materialized there. I mean –” he realizes his new neighbour is holding open the hard plastic cooler, displaying an assortment of cans and bottles on ice. “Oh, you meant-”

The guy just keeps raising his eyebrows, running his wiggling tongue along the rim of his grin. His eyes are sparkling, and Fred can’t tell if he’s drunk or if he’s laughing at him. Probably both.

“Just, uh, beer,” Fred fumbles out, his voice dipping down into just above a whisper. This was stupid. This guy was probably straight _and_ married. He’s about to stammer an excuse and walk away when the dark-haired man pokes his tongue into the corner of his mouth and gives him a once-over.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” says the stranger, his voice sexy and butterscotch smooth, and Fred knows he’s already lost, even if he is straight, even if he is married, even if he had a road map to find his way out of those eyes. He leans in closer. “I thought you looked like a sex on the beach kinda guy.”

Oh. _Oh._ That was – he must be -

“I- like that too,” Fred manages. He can feel sweat beginning to gather at the back of his neck, the hairs there raising along his spine with the heat. The guy smells like sunscreen and woodsmoke. It’s making Fred kind of dizzy.

“I think I’ll have an easier time finding a beer,” says the stranger, grinning and squatting down to reach into the cooler. He grabs the nearest cold can and rises back up easily, taking a step closer to Fred on the grass. Fred looks everywhere but the muscles in his thighs. The taller man keeps coming, far closer than he would need to be to hand over the drink. “I’m FP, by the way,” he says when he’s almost on top of Fred. Fred can count the hairs on his nearly-hairless chest. “My initials. FP Jones.”

He pops open the beer and holds it out so that their fingers brush. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Fred.”

FP nods his head toward a distant line of lounge chairs where a gaggle of neighbourhood wives had set up to watch the game. “Your wife over there, Freddie?”

Fred hadn’t mentioned his nickname. FP had simply chosen it for him. It makes his heart begin to pound so hard that his fingers go numb.

“I’m single, actually.” It still feels odd, saying that, especially with Mary only six feet away from him. But it’s the unvarnished truth at this point – they’d already signed the papers. “Divorced,” he adds, as explanation, and gulps anxiously from his beer.

“No kidding.” FP’s turned his whole attention toward Fred now, turning his back on the volleyball guys who had been trying to engage him in a new game. “Me too.” He wiggles his bare fingers at Fred, and for the first time Fred can see the strip of pale skin where his wedding band must have once been. FP smiles awkwardly under his floppy hair, vulnerable for the first time. “I got the house, she got everything else.”

Fred detects a hint of sadness in his eyes and nods. “Doesn’t sound like a good deal.”

A crooked grin travels up FP’s face, his eyes flickering down and back up to Fred’s lips. “I didn’t think so at the time. But, you know-” His eyebrow shoots up again, his tongue hanging out the corner of his mouth- “I’m starting to think it’s okay.”

Oh, they’re flirting. This is flirting. The rest of the party starts to melt into a blur, suddenly meaningless to his eyes and ears. They might as well be standing alone together in outer space. Fred feels a stupid smile slipping up over his cheeks before he can stop it.

“Kind of a big house just for you,” he tries, taking another sip from his beer to try and lubricate his dry throat.

“Yeah, well,” FP shifts his feet on the grass, grinning adorably as he kicks at the lawn. “I’ll have to find company.”

“Where’d you move from?” Fred asks quickly, not wanting to lose the conversation now that they had the ball rolling.

“Around the tracks,” says FP gruffly, flicking his head in the vague direction of the Southside. He glosses over his noncommittal answer in a hurry, jumping into the next sentence. “I like this street. Looks like a nice place.”

Fred pretends to glance around the neighbourhood, his eyes scanning the throngs of other people as he keeps his voice purposefully casual. “Hey, well, if you want to see inside some of the other houses, you’re welcome to see mine.”

FP’s tongue wets his lips again, his eyebrows shooting delightedly upward. Fred feels a slight thrill at the thought he’d surprised him. “That so?”

“Yeah,” replies Fred, tossing caution to the wind, shocked by how easily it comes to him. “We just had our master bedroom redone, if you want to see.”

A slow grin is spreading lopsidedly on FP’s face. Fred thinks about kissing the corner of that grin, and his heart begins to pound so hard it hurts.

“Sounds great,” FP says huskily, taking Fred’s beer from him and cutting him off mid-sentence. “Lead the way.”

“Now?” Fred blurts out, surprised, and suddenly blushes again. “Oh.” He runs his hands down the front of his shirt, glancing self-consciously around at the party. Perfect timing, actually. His house would be wide open and empty. “Yeah, we can go now. I’d love to go now.”

FP grins, all perfect teeth in a devilishly handsome face, and Fred’s stomach starts to buzz in a way that has nothing to do with the drink. “I’d love to go now, too.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S C R E A M S

“So we’ve got an ensuite and a walk-in closet,” Fred describes, leading FP into the master bedroom of his house. The bedroom is bright with sun despite the drawn blinds, a perfect, breezy summer day. “But I think your model has a bigger one. And you have the skylight above the stairs.”

He turns, and FP is right behind him. The cloying heat of the room makes it feel even closer, the warmth of FP’s body radiating onto his skin. For a beat they’re both frozen - then his neighbour takes a hesitant half-step back, and Fred closes the distance in one quick stride and presses their mouths together. 

The kiss is heavy and hot, FP pliantly opening his mouth to let Fred eagerly push his tongue inside. His dark eyebrows scrunch together adorably when Fred draws back, his eyes gently shut and his tongue darting out to touch his lower lip as though savoring the taste. 

Fred reaches out and runs his hands lightly over FP’s clothed hips, exploring the softness of him before digging his fingers into FP’s waistband and pulling him into another kiss. It’s so abrupt that their chins bump. Fred had expected FP’s stubble to be rough against his skin, but his beard is velvety smooth. FP’s warm hands land lightly on Fred’s hips, falling just as quietly back to his sides, as though he’s self-conscious about where they should stay. 

Fred takes charge of the moment, curving his grip firmly around to the small of FP’s back, smoothing his hands along his hot skin and moving them down to clench his neighbour’s ass. Fred’s stomach heats up as he feels the shape of it below FP’s clothes. His ass is tight, firm, and perfectly shaped. Fred can’t resist digging his fingers in with relish, pulling FP closer against him at the same time so that FP’s little beer gut presses hard into his crotch. There’s so much of him to touch - his sides, the small of his back, the soft pudge of belly crushed between them, the perfect plumpness of his ass - and Fred’s in heaven as FP’s stubble tickles over his lips, moaning into FP’s mouth as his fingers map the curve of his buttocks. 

FP’s hands settle lightly on Fred’s shoulders, unexpectedly docile as he presses back into the kiss. In one easy movement, Fred untucks FP’s tank top, skimming his hands over FP’s warm skin as he pushes it up under his arms. Every second neglecting FP’s ass is killing him, but he still takes the time to cup FP’s sides, grabbing two handfuls of the pudge on his love handles and pressing his fingers in. Then he’s running his hands slowly down the smooth skin of FP’s back, skating them up and down the curve of his butt and squeezing tight, his fingers dipping just below the hem of FP’s shorts to brush tantalizingly bare skin and then pressing them flat against his clothed ass to pull him closer. 

Every nerve ending in his body is on fire, the shorts he’d dug out of his dresser drawer for the block party painfully tight in the front, and yet he feels their kisses become shorter and more frequent, kissing as casually and gently as if they’d done this all their lives. Fred massages FP’s ass with his thumbs, suddenly aware of the nearness of his neighbour’s breathing, the warmth flooding from the places their skin touches. He can’t resist gently rubbing the curve of FP’s belly, planting both palms flat against the soft front of his gut, blood rushing to his crotch and his knees beginning to shake with the loveliness of the touch. FP lets out a noise that can only be termed a purr, and all the breath is stolen from Fred’s lungs. 

Fred kisses him deeply and tenderly, his fingers clutching FP’s waistband. The button of FP’s swimsuit is stretched painfully tight - Fred undoes it for him and focuses on gently rubbing out the pink indent left behind on his skin. FP’s hands reach for Fred’s zipper, drawing it down and peeling his shorts open. He sucks in a deep breath - lazy and in a hurry to get out the door, Fred had elected to go commando to the festivities. 

“God,” FP whispers throatily, hurriedly tugging Fred’s shorts down his thighs, and Fred helps him by holding FP’s shoulders and stepping out of them. FP’s hand floats a few inches above Fred’s cock, as though he’s waiting for permission to touch. He looks up, and Fred meets his dark chocolate eyes. FP’s pupils are blown wide. He clears his throat. 

“Would it be forward of me, considering we’ve only just met-” His hands grip Fred’s shoulders, dipping down a little as though he’s almost unable to keep himself from getting on his knees. “- to tell you how fucking bad I want that dick inside me right now?” 

Fred grins, pressing their foreheads together and planting a clumsy kiss on FP’s lips as he reaches down to tease himself to full hardness. “Get on the bed.” 

FP moans, shoving the rest of his swim trunks quickly and clumsily down to his ankles and scrambling onto the master bed, his face in the pillows and his butt in the air. Fred’s skin is thrumming with the heat of the moment, the excitement of doing this with a complete stranger. FP’s ass looks even better naked -juicy, tanned, and just slightly flushed pink. Fred climbs onto the bed after him, grabbing FP’s ass in both his hands and sinking a playful bite into the left cheek.

FP squirms at the motion, panting slightly as Fred grabs his thick hips and squeezes tight. Fred presses his tongue against the rim of FP’s hole, tugging him back by the hips to thrust FP onto his tongue. FP yelps and whimpers all at once, a high, tight sound that sends a wave of goosebumps down Fred’s spine. 

“You’re full of surprises,” FP mumbles as Fred pulls out the drawer of his night table, rooting for lube among spare batteries and miscellaneous bookmarks. He empties a generous amount into his hand and slicks himself up, pausing to rest one of his wet hands against FP’s hip. 

“You still want this?” he asks, admiring the place where his bite mark is starting to bloom red. The skin at the bottom of FP’s ass cheeks, otherwise flawless, is slightly mottled, as though it’s been hurt and healed. He has to wonder at FP’s usual nighttime activities. 

FP whimpers again. “Baby, you have no idea how bad I want this.  _ Please. _ ” 

The pitch of his voice makes Fred grin. “You sure you can take it?” he asks coyly, feeding into his dominant side. He playfully teases FP’s hole with one of his slicked up fingers, circling the rim, and FP lets out a quiet moan, his face flushing as scarlet as the skin of his ass. 

“I can take it,” he insists breathlessly. “I can take it.” 

Fred balances himself on the mattress behind FP, one hand resting against FP’s belly as he slips one finger, and then a second, inside him. FP moans, his lips spreading into a grin as he presses his face into the pillow.“Please,” FP begs. “More.” 

Fred leans in close so that his breath brushes FP’s skin. “Can you take more?” 

“Yes, yes-” FP’s face is buried in the duvet, his voice high and shaking. “I want more.” 

Fred slips two more fingers in, and FP wails, the flush spreading down the back of his neck and under the collar of his shirt. His dark hair is falling sloppily onto the pillow, and he looks completely undone in this position, submissive and sloppy. 

“I wanna look at you,” says Fred, his stomach feeling loose at the thought. He slides his fingers out and FP obediently repositions himself on his back, spreading his legs up and open as though he’s had years of practice. Fred slides his fingers back inside him, teasing him open, and then unwraps a condom from his bedside drawer. 

FP watches him with a flushed grin, his teeth even whiter and more perfect than Fred remembers. 

“Knew you’d have one on hand.” 

“How?” Fred asks, slipping it on. His cock is hot and heavy in his hand, and his stomach twitches with impatience. 

“Seemed the type.” FP grins breathlessly wider at him, his hair all over his face and his eyes very bright. “Boy scout.” 

Fred answers by pressing up against him until there’s no space between them, holding his thick cock in his hand and beginning to gently ease it into FP. FP cries out, his back arching and his head pressing back into the pillow. “God, you’re so  _ fucking _ big.” 

Fred’s only halfway in, but he’ll give him a second. FP’s face is glowing, both with sweat and happiness. Fred reaches out and holds FP’s thighs, letting him adjust before he bottoms out, thrusting hard into him and making FP yelp. 

“You’re good at this,” he teases, entranced by the place where their bodies connect, how FP’s hair makes a dark puddle on the pillow beneath his head. To his surprise FP looks even more obscenely happy with the compliment, grinning wider as his eyes flutter closed in ecstasy. “Taking cock.” 

“Fuck,” moans FP, “Fuck, I’m so full. You’re so perfect.  _ Fuck _ , Fred.” 

“You’re so pretty,” Fred murmurs, entranced by FP’s swollen lips. 

“Fuck me,” FP moans. “I want you to fuck me.  _ Please. _ ” 

At the magic word, Fred obliges without hesitation, building to a rhythm as he thrusts over and over into FP until his neighbour’s legs are trembling against his sides. FP makes the sweetest noises he’s ever heard - gasps and gulps and cries that sound so damn  _ needy _ that Fred trembles. He begs for it too, a string of jumbled pleading that flows out of his pouty lips, smooth as honey to Fred’s ears as his eyes roll up in his head. A heat begins to burn in the pit of his stomach, and he can feel himself tiring. He never wants this to end, but he can’t last much longer. Not with FP looking so fucking sweet under him, shaking like taking Fred’s cock was what he was meant to do. 

“FP-” he pants, “I’m close-” 

FP reaches up and squeezes his hands, a gesture so unexpected that Fred’s breath catches, his rhythm slipping. Then the glow in his stomach turns into a burn and he’s spilling into FP, tightening his grip until his fingernails break skin, clumsily leaning down to press their lips together one last time, their noses bumping painfully. FP rides it out like a champ, moaning long and loud. Fred strokes him until he comes too, murmuring sweet indulgences the whole time, showering him with praise. By the time he withdraws his softening cock from FP, the dark-haired man looks completely blissed out, his eyes unfocused and his face pinker than any sunburn. His hair is messier than Fred’s ever seen it, and his lips are swollen and soaking wet. 

“You-” FP mumbles, and then laughs, giddy and dizzy and half-high. “ _ Fuck. _ ” 

Fred climbs onto the bed beside him and kisses him, one hand snaking around to cup his bare ass again, gentle now. FP’s whole body goes slack, leaning into Fred in a gesture that’s the beginning of a cuddle. Fred encourages it, tossing an arm around FP’s shoulders as he gently traces an oval up and down FP’s back with a soothing finger. FP’s skin is hot to the touch, burning and slick with sweat and thoroughly fucked out. He nestles his face deeper into the crook of Fred’s neck, planting a wet kiss to his throat before going completely limp. 

“Anyone ever tell you you’re pretty good at that?” he mumbles lazily into Fred’s skin. 

Fred combs FP’s floppy hair with his fingertips, grinning at the thought that only an hour ago he’d only dreamed of touching it. “No one with an ass as cute as yours.” 


End file.
